Daughters of Jerusalem (Station 8)

Our paths wind with mystery through a murky wood. We know not the destination, but we pretend to choose our way points. Even then, the path seems fickle and capricious; we catch a glimpse of glittery gold through the trees, then cry and wail as the path doubles back, away from the bewitching sparkle of iron pyrite. Each fork forces deliberation. Which way is the right way? It is impossible to tell, and footprints marking the mud of one shall never be felt by the other.

We meet ghosts along the way. Sometimes they travel with us, or perhaps we travel with them – the difference can be hard to distinguish in the gloom. They bear the scratches of brambles our skin has felt, and the bruises from stones upon which our toes have trod, and we cry – not for their injuries and their pain, but for memory of our own past injuries and pain, and for anticipation of those yet to come. It doesn’t matter, though. The ghosts cry with us, for themselves, and then none of us are alone.

And yet we wander the murky wood, rich with life and motion, sight and sound. Our senses live every step – soft dirt lovingly caressing our toes, the delicate musk of dogwood dancing seductively with the sweet scent of honeysuckle, the low rhythmic heartbeat of the surf as it slowly rolls back and forth against the warm sand of pristine beaches forgotten by time. The path itself whispers to our souls, rich with the thrum of life. One day we will reach the end, and the mist will part to reveal the Sun’s shining glory. For now, though…

For now, enjoy the path.

February 22nd, 2012. First posted at Community Mennonite Church of Lancaster, February through May, 2012

2 Comments

  1. Were you the author of this? If you were, outstanding, if you were not let whoever was know.

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